Never Enough
by FlamesEmbrace
Summary: Ever since the end of Sixth year, things had been going downhill for Draco. The entire Dark Forces hunting him down, a werewolf bite and a lifedebt to Harry Potter were almost expected. DMHP
1. Prologue

**Title**: Never Enough

by: Ember

**Summary**: Ever since the end of Sixth year, things had been going downhill for Draco. The entire Dark Forces hunting him down, a werewolf bite and a lifedebt to Harry Potter were almost predictible.

**A/N**: I'm a fangirl. () How I despise this part of myself. Heheh. (I also hate Crossfade, but I like this one part of So Cold. Most of that song, I'm notsomuch in love with. But yeah. Lyrics down there by them. That's all I wanted to say.)

And so here we are.

**Warning and Disclaimer-y things**: If I were JK Rowling, I wouldn't be bothering with this. Hell, I'm rich! I can hire the queen of England to write my fanfics for me!

This story contains slash, and a pairing that has always made me sorta wince a little bit. Apart from Rhyssen, InferiorBeing and a couple of really good fics, I never found one in this pairing that I really liked. But that's alright, 'cause I'm a hypocrite. And... I don't really like this fic, either; I like the plot idea, but I don't like the prologue. I like the first chapter; the prologue is WAY too short and doesn't have enough periods.

Reviews are always appreciated. If I get enough I'll prolly even actually continue this. XD (Can you tell I'm not stoked to be doing a HP fic?)

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What I really meant to say  
Is I'm sorry for the way I am  
I never meant to be so cold  
To you I'm sorry about all the lies  
Maybe in a different light  
You could see me stand on my own again

†¤¤†

It was seven-oh-eight, as the muggles said it- according to the weathered muggle watch on his wrist- and, after a long, warm, beautiful summer day, the light was just starting the dwindle, the sun just starting to sink down the to edge of the earth. Spears of color struck the sky, and Draco Malfoy, watching it from his position on the grass, a large glass vial on his lap, his hand spread over it as if protecting it at all cost, watched the light and color show with a growing sense of dread and hatred for the uncompromising beauty.

There had been a time when he would never have touched a muggle watch, but wizard watches weren't much good for telling time (although they were good for pretty much everything else; from political power swings to the position of Jupiter's four largest moons), and time of day had become very important as of late. Time of day meant everything, at least once the day of the month was set.

Draco pushed one lock of hair out of his face, and glanced back down at the vial, then at the watch. Sunset was at eight-thirty four. He had one hour and forty-odd minutes left to decide.

It wouldn't have been so bad- it wouldn't have been nearly so bad, it couldn't have been nearly so bad- if he had kept his nerve up, if he'd had the balls to go through with it. His father, the man he'd known all his life, the man he'd always looked up to, the man he'd indirectly bragged to his school friends about, had always said he was a natural-born Death Eater, and perhaps intellectually he was. Dumbledore, who had seen him in the Great Hall three times daily for six years, had told him he wasn't a killer, and Dumbledore had been right. He had been tortured within an inch of his sanity for needing Snape to back him up at the end of sixth year, and throughout it all the old man's eyes stared lifelessly and reproachfully at him through wrinkled and half-mast eyelids, providing an extra bite to the pain. Worse- far worse- was embodied in the white scar on his shoulder, a half-ring of little punctures, with Fenris Greyback had taken great delight the next full moon in giving him. And three pointless but rousing outings afterward, Draco Malfoy, officially tainted with the blood of two muggle women, fled the gaggle of Death Eaters he was travelling with.

It would have been fine if he'd had the strength to stay with them. He laughed, just slightly, half-mocking, to think about it. Such a _fine_, upstanding man, the teachers had always said it, though they hinted to one another that maybe there was something about him they didn't quite trust, couldn't quite put their fingers on. One would think that eventually, the good side would get better at putting their fingers on the deviant trait. There he was, his father's splitting image, proud and strong and clever. But too afraid to stay on one side, too afraid to make up his mind. It had killed his headmaster, after all, hadn't it?

Not him, but his indecision. His inherent idiocy.

One hour and twenty-nine minutes, until the full moon just barely looked over the trees, and once again, as he did every month, Draco lost what little pride he had left, clinging in tatters to the dirtied lanks of his hair, the stained veneer of his robes. Runaways were always dirty; where would he stop to get a shower, or a change of clothes? In a world where even the person you most trust can always betray you, sometimes without even knowing what they're doing, where the person you most trust could very well be your worst enemy in another skin.

One hour and eleven minutes left. The potion might take forty minutes for full effect, so he didn't have long. Hesitating for just one second, he slowly twisted off the crystal cap and looked down at the clear liquid inside.

They had killed his mother, they had, in cold blood, to 'teach him a lesson about what hesitation costs.' He had watched them do it. Snape told him that when his life was at risk, Narcissa had screamed, wailed, cried, but when it was her turn, all the woman had done was snarl wordlessly and take the pain with more anger than fear or despair. He could do the same. He had to do the same; he was a Malfoy, even if he was a dirty and broken one in the end. He was still a Malfoy and would do it with the pride and style that name dictated.

He raised the vial to his mouth, pulled the cork out with his teeth,toasted to nothingness with a wry and painful grin, and poured it all down his throat with one long, unflinching swallow. Then he looked around him, vision already starting to blur, trying to take in as much as possible; it was suddenly very important that he remember the earth, that he remember the last things he saw. The street sign right over his head said, "Grimmauld Place."

He couldn't for the life of him figure out why a little voice inside his head was telling him that was significant.

†¤¤†

Too shooooort. It burns me. Chapter One goes up tomorrow if all goes well.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

by Ember

A/N: This chapter's only a little longer than the prologue, but it's some. And it has a plot, which is always good. I'm still not stoked with it, but it'll do.

†¤¤†

It seemed like someone should have thrown a party, or something. Baked him a goodbye cake. Given him a pair of socks and cried like mad and congradulated him on finally becoming a man, growing up, taking his life into his own hands. They could have said goodbye.

They were unerringly silent.

Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the wizard student who prided himself in his ability to face off the most evil wizard in the living world, vile creatures of the soul-sucking persuasion, thirty-ton dragons and hardened magical criminals, felt increasingly uncomfortable and uncertain how much more of this he could take. Dish out the pain, dish out the mortal terror, but he'd be avoiding the family reunions from now on.

"So, err," he said, which he hoped constituted as a goodbye.

Vernon glanced at the wall clock. His nephew- who wasn't even really his nephew, not by blood, and all these years were really Petunia's fault, weren't they- had three hours before he officially turned seventeen and didn't have to be part of his world anymore. "You're the one who wanted to leave before midnight," he said, perhaps more sharply than necessary, unsure whether he felt more annoyed that the boy hadn't taken their offered hospitality but had fled just before he would have been kicked out, or nervous about what would happen to their home, once the protection wasn't on the boy anymore, and before the evil that was after him figured out he wasn't there anymore.

"Don't..." Harry glanced up at the clock, then down at Hedwig. Kreacher had been moving his stuff to Number 12, Grimmauld Place all night, and all that was left were Harry and the owl, ready to move via Apparation. "Err. Don't die."

Dudley gasped, Petunia clasped a hand to her mouth, and Vernon grunted in a vaguely offensive manner.

"Because, y'know." After seventeen years around these people, he still couldn't formulate a sentence towards them. "Because they might come here looking for me, and you have to be ready." Ready to do what? He didn't know. No one asked him.

"You should probably go," Petunia said, putting a protective hand on Dudley's shoulder, as if suddenly scared of her own nephew.

Harry agreed. He grabbed the top of Hedwig's cage, gave his best impression of a friendly wave, and, in another second, was gone.

It was three hours before he could legally do magic on his own, but given that the prisons were all full and his destination relatively secret, the worst the Ministry could do was expell him from a school he wouldn't be going back to, anyway. And so he wasn't particularly surprised when he appeared in Number 12, Grimmauld Place without any retribution on the fact.

A hunched-over figure shuffled into the room, shot one disgusted look at its master, and shuffled out again wordlessly. Aside from that, only Hedwig's shifting moved the heavy air of the old house around. Harry suddenly wasn't sure _what_ he should be doing. His possessions sat in a sad little lump in the middle of the living room, which all by itself seemed far too big for them.

He suddenly wished Ron or Hermione were here with him. Hermione would be exasperated at him for breaking the law- even a techincallity as he'd done- and Ron would be laughing out loud at how stupid he'd sounded back at the Dursley's. Hedwig made a low, soft sound and rustled her soft feathers.

He couldn't believe this. After so long of living by himself in his little room in his uncle's house, Harry was actually lonely on his own.

The truth was, he'd always associated leaving the Dursleys with going to Hogwarts, and he'd always associated leaving his 'home,' with his friends. Now that he was stuck here without anyone, it was kind of a shock. After all, even the people he hated were still _people_.

"Masster?" Two tennis-ball eyes poked around the enterance to the living room. Correction- most of the people he hated were people.

"What is it, Kreacher?" He couldn't help but feel a little upset at the little House Elf, even though he knew Kreacher wouldn't have stopped doing something he was instructed to do if the reason for interruption wasn't important.

"Kreacher thinks..." The elf paused, looked over his shoulder, and shifted visibly. "Kreacher thinks that Master should see something, he does." One knobby little finger poined at the front door through the open kitchen. "It's right outside, it is; it's important, very important."

"What's wrong?" The elf had started moving jerkily towards the door, looking unusually troubled and keeping his head submissively down. "What-"

"Kreacher isn't sure. It is important." Upon reaching the door, Kreacher vanished with a crack, leaving Harry to open the door from inside and peer out.

Whoever coined the phrase 'seeing is believing' wasn't a wizard. Wizards see a lot of things, many of them false, and are very much aware that muggles rarely see anything true, especially in today's modern world, and know that, in all actuality, sight is one of the less trustworthy senses. (More concrete proof lay in the more solid senses touch and smell, though overly common use of these sensesproved impractical.)

It was this stigma that kept, for a long time, Harry Potter standing in his front door, staring, shocked, out into the street. It was pure shock that kept him from registering Draco Malfoy slumped over his own knees, staring sightlessly ahead with wide, round grey eyes. The arched back buckled, the mouth slid open, and a trickle of silver substance mixed heterogeniously with blood dribbled down his chin like macabre drool.

Harry knew, at least intellectually, that if Malfoy had come out of his high-class manor to find _him_ stretched out on the ground like that, he would have come running over, grabbed him off the ground, kicked him, let him fall again, kicked him again, and gone back inside, possibly wishing him the best in hell before closing the door on him. But Harry was one of the _good guys_.

He went back inside, quite passively.

Closed the door.

Sighed.

Leaned back against it.

Cursed, flung it open, stormed out, and grabbed Malfoy by the shoulder. The sun was already down; the orange glow of the full moon was already threatening at the treeline. It could have been a pleasant evening, if Malfoy wasn't already starting to whimper in pain. A glass vial slid off his lap and broke into three peices on the ground.

Harry wanted to scream at his enemy, wanted to get it out while Draco was dependantand down,but couldn't think of anything to say. So he cooled down, glared at the pale face, and snarled, "Tried to kill yourself. That's low, even for you." And then he hauled him into the Black Estate, letting Kreacher close the door behind him. "There has the be a bezoar around here somewhere. Sirius said his grandfather was bloody paranoid." Malfoy didn't reply. His breathing was getting erratic, and he was starting to whimper with every exhale; Harry, who was carrying him rather awkwardly with both hands meeting across the blonde's chest, hurried to throw him onto the couch in the living room and run into the guest room, rummaging through the drawers for the comforting stone.

It took several searches until he finally found three little round rocks, and, pocketing one, Harry ran back into the living room, where Malfoy was lying on the couch, whimpering and sweating heavily. Harry jammed one finger into the other boy's mouth, worked his jaws open, and slid the stone inside, barely pulling his finger out whole. When had the ferret's teeth gotten so damn sharp?

Malfoy was still sweating, his pretty hair, now much dirtier and lankier than Harry remembered, hanging in sweaty streaks down his face. _Well, no shit you're hot. _Why the hell was Malfoy wearing long-sleeved robes and a cloak in summer? His somewhat panicked mind not really registering that the black cloak was Death Eater make or that the robes under it were torn, Harry pulled the heavier clothes off, leaving his rival in his vest and a pair of black pants.

Two things at once happened- Malfoy's eyes suddenly opened, and Harry caught sight of a line of pink scars along the line were his neck met his shoulder. Since when were Malfoy's eyes green? And where did this come from? Finding it hard to even notice the emerald, sightless stare or the short, swift grunts that were coming from his dying rival, Harry reached out and traced the line of scars, somehow fascinated with their shape. They made a oblong circle, like a...

There was the painful sound of bone scraping against bone, and Malfoy's face stretched out, like a long balloon suddenly inflated. The blank expression quickly took light, and the green eyes fixed on Harry just as the ferret's mouth started to spring long white triangles of teeth.

...like a bite mark.

Two and two suddenly made sense as Malfoy's hand crumpled with several wet pops into a paw, and white fur shot down the length of his neck. Harry shot upright, backing away as Malfoy rolled off the couch and onto mismatched, splayed feet on multi-jointed legs. "Oh, fuck."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

by Ember

AN: ...Er, wow. Thanks for the reviews. :D See, now here's an example of a chapter I actually like. I like the detail in this one. I like the tone. I like Draco's brattiness and spoiled-ness and Harry's... err...Well.Harry-ness just fails to summarize. Anyway. It makes me happy. Just like feedback.

--

Draco Malfoy blinked large, green eyes at the Gryffindor that had been his rival and enemy for so long, let his massive maw hang open, and, balance thrown by legs still twisting and reshaping, a rib cage still lengthening in a loud process that made the werewolf's face twist in agony, loped foward, a few steps at a time. It hurt, but the pain seemed so small in comparison to the overwhelming instincts swamping Draco's currently very limited mind. He was going to kill someone. He was going to do it now.

Harry cursed, fumbled for his wand, and backed away quickly, towards the still-open door of the bedroom he'd just left. Draco's body finally stopped twisting and twitching and the pain gradually faded from his features, his lithe form rippling and moving with more natural fluidity. Harry cursed again, louder this time, startling a dignified-looking elderly lady in a painting and only serving otherwise to catch the werewolf's attention.

Questing fingers finally encountered the wand in his robes and he pulled it out with a flourish, a stream of scarlet sparks shooting randomly out at the wolf. Startled, Draco stumbled backwards, eyes suddenly widening and hackles rising. He tossed his head back and forth violently, jaws working, and let a loud, brash cough reverberate out of his throat.

_The bezoar_, Harry remembered suddenly, watching the violet-pink tongue flick in and out of the werewolf's muzzle. _He's choking on it._

He spared the hulking white lupine one more glance, then turned and high-tailed it back into the room, hearing the loud footfalls of Malfoy charging behind him, choking or not choking. It was imperative that he should chase anything that moved.

Harry slammed the door shut and managed to hold it against Malfoy's weight crashing into the other side so hard the wood around the hinges started to break. He flicked the lock, rapped his wand against the grain, and snapped out an imperviability charm, to strengthen the aged wood. Then he staggered backwards, onto Sirius's grandfather's old bed, and tried to ignore the whimpering, scrabbling, snarling sounds from outside.

"What has the world come to, Kreacher wonders?" Harry, who hadn't seen the House Elf when he'd run in, or heard his arrival, spun around fast enough that he thought his stomach might still be turned towards the door. "The good families, the respectable families, fall apart, and Kreacher works for a blood traitor, now; works for Harry Potter the Boy Who Should Have Died."

Harry raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's bold, even for you, Kreacher," he commented, not condemningly.

"The Malfoys was a good family."

"In a 'murder innocent people while they sleep' sort of way, yes I'm sure they were."

"Now Narcissa is dead, Lucius is hunted down like a hurt unicorn-"

"Narcissa is dead?" Having never known the woman, Harry wasn't sure why it mattered, but as long as he was suddenly responsible for Malfoy's life he might as well know why the hell the boy would try and take it. "How do you know?"

Kreacher was never very good at hiding guilt; it was a difficult emotion for the dark little elf to feel, but he always showed it whenever he did anything that might get him in trouble. "Kreacher has ways of knowing things."

Harry opened his mouth to press further, but decided against it. Wasn't worth it.

"Lucius is hunted down, barely escaped that horrible prison, and Draco wears the Dark Lord's mark and Fenrir's bite together on one arm."

"Fenrir's bite? Fenrir Greyback?"

Kreacher shrugged. "Who else?"

It was a good question. Harry only knew two werewolves, and even if Lupin did somehow run out of wolfsbane and lose control long enough to bite Malfoy, he would have, Harry was sure, refrained. The thought of actually _biting_ the slimey git put a nasty taste in Harry's mouth.

Once again, the door buckled under the werewolf's weight being thrown against it. Dull wolf claws scrabbled on the floor, searching for a hold on the linoleum so it could brace itself for a more forceful assault. Harry stopped trying to figure out _what_ was going on in the wizarding world- he could ask Malfoy in the morning- as the seranade of thuds, scrabbles, slashes, cracks and yelps signified that the werewolf refused to give up until midmorning.

Which was when Harry, sprawled out on the bed, noticed a distinct lack of noise, then a quiet, continuous whimper, then a loud, scorching yelp. Pained, animalistic sounds continued to saturate the air, mixed with the wet noises coming from shifting anatomy.

"Kreacher?" Harry mumbled, even though he was awake enough that he could have spoken clearly. He hadn't gotten any sleep at all that night; it was kind of difficult with all the bangs and screams from the next room. Add that to the fact that he couldn't even do his homework, which was still in the sitting room he had apparated into. Granted, he wouldn't be going back to school, but it would have been _something_ to do. "Kreacher?"

There wasn't a responce. Well hey, maybe the elf was making breakfast, like a _normal_ house elf.

The canine cries broke down into more human whimpers and grunts and something that could have been sobs if Draco Malfoy allowed himself to sob. Harry could hear him muttering and, without a second thought, pressed his ear against the wall.

"What happened?" the Death Eater was growling to himself, the frustration tinging his voice red. "What went _wrong_?" Then a hesitation, shocked and horrified. "Bezoar."

There was a sudden, startling crack that had to be the bezoar thrown hard at the wood pressed against Harry's ear. He jumped back, swore, then, calming himself down, swung the door cautiously open and peered outside.

Malfoy'd had the presense of mind to sling a robe over his body, and he clutched it closed with his hand as he spun around to glare at his impromptu rescuer. His mouth quirked up into a rather cool and nasty smile. "Potter. I should have known, really. Gryffindor's Golden Boy, too squeaky clean to let someone die."

He looked a lot like he had the night before, really, minus the wolf part; still too pale, drawn-out, thin, dirty, with huge purple bags hanging under his thankfully silver eyes. Harry shoved down the faint, foul-tasting stirrings of venemous pity he was starting to feel and glared right back. "You should have picked a better place to try, then."

Gray eyes sparked when they met Harry's green ones, hate thickening the air between them. "This is the part where I throw myself at your feet and thank you, then," the blonde spat, snatching his wand off the couch as if expecting Harry's furniture to withhold his arms. His voice sprang up an octave, sounding unerringly similar to Professor Flitwick. "Oh, Potter, you saved my life; you really are the _hero_ of the wizarding world."

Harry rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling absurdly like he was trying to sheild himself from his enemy's sarcasm. As if he wasn't immune to it by now. "Get a life, Malfoy."

"Was that a pun?" Harry shrugged, and Malfoy snorted, bitterly and without humor. "I was actually in the market for a while there. I'm looking to replace this one, you see, it seems to have gone to pot."

"What happened?" Malfoy's only response was another bitter snort, without all the warmth and mirth of the prior one. Harry rolled his eyes. "At least do me a favor, Malfoy."

"What?" From the tone of his voice, Malfoy expected the worst, which made Harry's stomach turn somewhat. Just because the blonde would stoop at any level to strike at Harry didn't mean he would do the same against Malfoy.

"Get a fucking shower."

Loathe though he was to accept his worst enemy's hospitality, Draco couldn't deny he needed one. He was caked with dried mud and ever since he'd been bitten he'd been paranoid about winding up with fleas. Granted, it was getting colder, fast, but they were supposed to be really bad this year.

--

Kreacher was a bad House Elf, and Harry was beginning to see why. Of course, he did what he was told- it was a biological imperative- but he did it wrong whenever possible, for no seeming reason other than to watch his master get upset without ever administrating punishment.

Now he watched Harry struggle with a frying pan of eggs- he'd forgotten to grease it, the silly wizard, and was now cursing loudly as chunks of cooked egg barely scraped off with the repeated, frustrated motions of the spatula.

He dropped the whole mess back into the sink, however, when he heard the footsteps that heralded Draco Malfoy's arrival. The platinum blonde head poked in, glanced from wizard to Elf, then lingered on the human. "Potter, what are you doing?"

Harry gritted his teeth and lifted the pan almost threateningly. "I'm making breakfast."

Malfoy was dressed in his clothes from last night, sans Death Eater cloak- perhaps out of courtesy, perhaps just because of the magic heat that kept the house at a constant sixty-five- despite how dusty, torn and stained they were. Nevertheless, he managed to look perfectly arrogant, like a remarkably stuck-up, and recently cleaned, hobo. "With your Elf sitting right there?"

Kreacher jumped in with a pleading look at the werewolf. "He told me, Master Malfoy; he told me he could do it better, he said, he could do it better than I."

Malfoy snorted, pushing a lock of loose blonde hair over his shoulder. It had grown out since he'd left Hogwarts- after all, he hadn't had time to get a haircut, and he wouldn't think of settling for doing it himself, or letting someone inept take care of it. "And you let him try? Well, but you're a House Elf, you don't really have a choice, now, do you? Make whatever you can of his mess, or just make something for me if it isn't salvageble."

Harry opened his mouth to say something about that, but Kreacher had already somehow gotten some flour and salt floating in the air and had started on waffles. The black-haired wizard gritted his teeth and followed Malfoy into the living room.

"You think you can just come in here and start ordering my- err, Kreacher around like he belongs to you?"

Malfoy snorted again, flicking his gaze over Harry as if the other boy was either not much to look at or simply not interesting enough to hold his attention. "He listens to me, doesn't he?"

"That doesn't make him your's!"

The pureblood shook his head, obviously dismissing everything the other boy was saying. "Don't get so upset about it. I'm not staying here."

Before he could stop himself, Harry snapped, "Hell yes you are."

Once more, their eyes met and sparks flew between them- quite literally, red ones springing up at the will of neither of them. But Harry had thought this through- if he let Malfoy go, the damned prick would just do it again, try and kill himself, or really do it. Or worse, he _wouldn't_ kill himself, and next month he'd just be another monster out there. But if Harry kept him here, he could find out about the wolfsbane potion, and keep an eye on his rival, so he couldn't take the easy way out.

He would have to put up with Malfoy. But he couldn't really let a werewolf run all around England without anyone with it. And he couldn't let even his enemy take his life like that. It was stupid, and deep down inside, Harry was willing to admit that he felt a tiny bit sorry for the idiotic prick.

Granted, the blonde didn't hear any of this reasoning. "I'll eat breakfast on the road," Malfoy decided aloud, and turned around to leave, grabbing his cloak from the couch.

"No, you won't." And here's where the gamble came in, because Harry wasn't sure exactly how far wizard bonds stretched. "You owe me your life, Malfoy- you have to stay here, until you pay it back."

Silver eyes flashed in the dim light from the kitchen as Malfoy spun on his heel, his lips drawn up almost into a snarl. "Says who?"

Harry shrugged. "Me." It was his decision- at least, he hoped it was his decision, wasn't it?- because the debt was owed to him. Most of the books he'd read on it, right after Dumbledore told him that Wormtail owed him, implied the Lifedebt's rules were decided by the debtor. If he demanded Malfoy stay here, until he repaid him... "It's not a physical binding. But you _are_ the last source of your family's honor..."

And therein, he hit a weak spot.

Malfoy's eyes locked onto his, and this time the sparks were more like miniature flames. "I hate you. Did you know that, Potter?" And then he turned around, stalked into the bedroom Harry had huddled in all last night, and slammed the door closed so hard it stuck.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

by Ember

A/N: So, it's Christmas. And Chanukah (there's more than one way to spell it, right:o) day one. Happy Holidays everyone! It's always nice to have a time of the year set aside so we can reflect on things like OMG IS THAT AN IPOD!

...Yeah. Alright, I'm not really that cynical! And our greed allows us to experience divine forgiveness, first hand! Score! Or, you could go ahead and do the right thing, and review. It'll make you feel nice. :3 (That's as cynical/religious as I get. I swear. :P)

--

Keres knew where his master was; it was nearly instinct, after all. He wasn't just any odd sort of owl, he was a purebred wizarding owl, and could tell anyone who asked at that moment (and who happened to speak owl) exactly where he was going. So, considering where it was he was going, perhaps it was for the best that no one around could speak owl.

He circled twice over the black roof of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, checking all the windows one at a time for someone who would let him in, then descended on the foggy window of the library, perched on the sill, and began scratching, politely, with one talon at the frosted glass.

Harry, who had, for the past week and a half, spent more time in the Black family's extended library than he wanted to think about, stopped in the middle of "Potent Potions for Lime, Rust and Grass Stains," which had been the last book with the word 'potions' in it that he could find on the whole shelf. So far, he'd already dissected the most likely candidates for holding the secret of the Wolfsbane potion, including "Potions for the Defense Against Dark Arts" "Common Antidotes for Uncommon Ailments" and several blank volumes which happened to hold nothing more secret than care and uptake of some long-discarded line of broomstick and, in the secret, subtle brown volume, a few rather potent-sounding spells for things that made Harry blush and shove the book into the 'not exactly useful' pile. Cohabiting with these were "Dark Magical Creatures" "So Your Brother Was Bitten: How to Cope" and even, in a stroke of bravery Harry wasn't sure he'd be able to summon, "My Run-in With a Werewolf" by Gildorly Lockhart. All of them had made reference to Wolfsbane, (excepting the blank volumes and the one he was reading now, and Lockhart had described making it in a fortnight to save the ailing affected wizards with such embellished pomp that nothing written could possibly have been relevant) but none of them went into specifics. It was apparently a difficult enough potion that most books avoided the details altogether.

And so, with the full moon of this month looming ahead with all the tenacity of a ticking timebomb, Harry hurried through each book, searching fervently for the secret. And still, no luck, although now he could fix that infestation of mildew in the downstairs bathroom.

Every distraction made him testy, whether it was Kreacher bringing him food at his own request or Hedwig arriving with the Daily Prophet every morning. Malfoy didn't seem to mind. He ran the house on his own, and in fact ran it better than Harry could, because the house quite frankly liked him better. Kreacher listened to him, portraits pointed out the way, and Harry'd heard Sirius's great aunt and third cousin talking by the stairs about him. "Such a nice boy, and of real family, not like the trash Sirius coughed up," the splotchy painting with the large brown mole announced hautily. The ratty boy watercolor replied with a nasal voice. "You know, he's Narcissa's boy." "He's a real Black, then! No wonder I like him so much!"

There is something distressing about one's own house, the last thing you'll ever see of the one person who ever really cared for you like a father, and your father's best friend, acting in a way unerringly similar to one's least favorite teacher. And Malfoy, of course, lapped it up like a cat, conversing with paintings, conspiring with Kreacher. It was enough to drive Harry mad- especially when all _he_ wanted to do was find the Wolfsbane potion and _someone_ to take the blonde off his hands.

So it wasn't altogether surprising when, at a quiet little scratching from outside, he threw the book down, counted to ten, and answered it with barely-veiled irritation. Hedwig, who was sitting patiently on his table, got a withering glare for no apparent reason, as if she personally had invited the interloper here.

He opened the window and was startled first by the sheer _size_ of the bird who flew through. It didn't pay him any attention but clumsily staggered into the flat air inside the manor, crashing into the table and kreening angrily at the closed library door.

Harry, who'd only ever seen one eagle owl this close up, knew well who it wanted to find. "Come on," he muttered, and stuck out his arm; after considering it with narrowed gold eyes, it finally decided to trust him and fluttered over to perch on his bicep. It was much heavier than Hedwig, and seemed to have more trouble getting comfortable, waving its massive wings with wild abandon for where it was cramming those feathers and edging up and down Harry's arm, nicking the bare skin with sharp talons. A note was tied to one leg with a peice of green ribbon, and a silver stamp bore a snake-and-salamander crest. On the other hand, it really wasn't Harry's business. Juggling the giant bird, he got the door unlocked and opened and poked his head into the hallway. It was quiet. "Malfoy?"

One of the portraits who had always been very civil to Harry yawned and blinked doe-like eyes at him. "He's probably upstairs, in the master bedroom. He's been pacing a lot lately."

The news didn't surprise Harry, who would have been pacing, himself, if he didn't have research to do- there just wasn't much to _do_ in response to the manhunt staged against him, and he guessed Malfoy felt the same. But on the other hand... "He could have been helping me look up Wolfsbane."

The portrait shrugged, and Harry, realizing that he was on the edge of a rant that had been boiling for three days, hurried to the nearest staircase. The Black Estate had several of them, all winding dramatically, until there was almost too much dramatic flair for one house to hold. The owl, growing impatient, shuffled and crooned, rubbing one talon against its unburdened leg.

The door to the master bedroom was locked, which boded well. "Open the door, Malfoy," Harry snapped, then, remembering his age, whipped out his wand and snapped "Alohamora," at the doorknob. Keres shreiked, maybe at the invasion of his master's privacy, but probably in some sort of avian greeting.

Malfoy wasn't pacing. He was sitting on the bed, looking out at nothing. Harry might have expected him to be crying, but of course he wasn't; it went against what the Malfoys stood for to break down like that, even though everything in his posture said he should have, and he looked maybe weaker just sitting there than he would have otherwise. Harry, not liking the blatant sympathy that was beginning to clog his chest, cleared his throat, and the owl screamed again, beating the dead air with its wings and gliding over to sit next to its master.

Malfoy snapped out of whatever reverie he was in as soon as he saw the owl. "Keres?" he managed, incrediously, then broke the note off the eagle-owl's leg without even so much as thanking it. Keres, however, was used to it, and looked proud enough of a job well done on its own, as all less-than-wizards seemed to be proud to have served the Malfoys.

"It's from Snape," he said, after a second of inspecting it, because Harry was hovering in his doorway and seemed to expect to be included.

"How can you tell?" the other asked, moving forward a little to see the sprawl of the note.

"He signed it," the blonde sneered, rolling his eyes minutely and pointing. He cleared his throat and read out loud in an exasperated tone, "To Draco Malfoy- I hope you don't deceive yourself into thinking that you can avoid the Dark Lord forever. Already, the werewolves are on your track, and we already made the Wolf's Bane so they can hunt you all through the full moon. Give up and surrender yourself, Draco- if you manage to do it just right, you might not even be killed." This didn't sound altogether like their Potions Master- maybe a panicked and hurried substitute. Harry opened his mouth to suggest fraudery, when Malfoy lunged forward in an increasingly excited tone- "I hope you don't believe that you can make the potion yourself. It's exceedingly complicated, even for one of your stature- and besides, the hickory has to be smoked for more than a month anyway, before being added to the Gorgon Grass and the Necter of Naiad- bloody Rasputen. This is it." It didn't take a genius to figure out exactly what it was- someone had sent Malfoy instructions on how to make the potion, and in a format Harry wasn't certain rang sincere.

He moved forward, grabbing for the list, but Malfoy shot him a poisonous glare and pulled it away. "What do you want?"

"I wouldn't trust it." Harry shot the paper a glare that should have turned it to ash. "How would _Snape_ benefit from sending you the Wolfbane potion? And you know that if he'd gotten caught, no matter how cleverly he wrote it, it wouldn't fool anyone..."

He was starting to stumble on his words and finally fell silent, staring at the coldly glaring Malfoy with the sinking feeling that nothing he was saying was getting through. "Well, really," Malfoy hissed, his voice low and as soft as velvet, "it's really either that I risk it, or I run around as a wolf every full moon for the rest of my life- however long _that_ is- and take out everyone I can touch with me." The sick-sweet smile he shot at Harry had more of the aforementioned wolf in it than the ferret they had all known. "Or, you could try your luck again. The moon's waxing, and there's nothing left in the library for you to check."

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. Hey, it was Malfoy's ass; if worse came to worst he could petrify the aristocrat before he could hurt anyone, mid-transformation, the second he started to snarl. "Do whatever you want. Prick."

Malfoy whisked himself out of the room, clutching his note in one white-knuckled hand and muttering something about idiot muggle-raised _benedicts_ trying to run his life and tell him what was _best_ for him. Harry rolled his eyes and reflected on the ingredients of the potion, thumbing almost wishfully through them for any poison he knew that used them. Necter of Naiad- he'd never heard of _that_ in any poison. Gorgon Grass could be used in almost anything. Hickory smoked for more than a month... Wait, what now?

_The hickory has to be smoked for more than a month._

...Shit.

Even if the potion worked, they weren't home free yet. Harry glanced wistfully towards the open window- where Keres already sat, dozing quietly- then trudged back for the library, knowing full well what the generation bridge was telling him to do.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

A/N: The good news is, I got Placebo, which is inspiration in CD form. The bad news is, I got God of War, which is distracting. :3 We'll see how it goes.

--

Ron Weasley had a somewhat vague nightmare and woke up with a feeling of foreboding and no real memory behind impressionistic ideas of why he felt that way. It was an unnerving way to wake up, but since the end of fifth year, when Sirius had died, he'd gotten used to it, so he swallowed it down, swung his legs out of his bed, and almost ran into Pig, who was bouncing around his room so fast he was leaving a feather trail. One hand threading through the red bed-head that insisted it was his hair as if he needed to hold his head on his neck, he caught Pig right out of the air and shook him, once, sending the note he was carrying fluttering to the floor. He let the little feathered Snitch go and bent over to pick it up, ignoring his owl's shriek and erratic flying.

"Herm's reply," he mumbled, more to himself than to Pig, and put it on the desk while he got dressed and took a quick shower. The hot water was run out- Fred and George had come home and already taken their shower, and so had Ginny; in a house where there had once been nine people and only one bathroom, Ron was the only one who had never learned how to wake up early- and he didn't remember the spell to keep the water warm, so he took a fast, cold shower, brushed out his hair, and got dressed. Locking the door to his room behind him, he started to unfold the letter, which was apparently rather long-winded and had to be folded very small so as to be small enough for Pig to carry.

"Ron? Come down for breakfast!"

"In a minute, Mum!" This was important- but he really couldn't share it with the rest of the family at the moment. He sat down at his desk, took a deep breath, and read the letter.

"Ron-

You want to drop out of school. Yes, I remember, Ron, but don't you think (there was a part crossed out here) we'd be safer in school, we can still fight with Harry, we can work something out with McGonnagal. This is our future, you know, and don't say that we don't have a future if we don't do this because that's just morbid. I... (another crossed out part) ...don't know. (The whole parchment was splotchy with tears. This was getting more and more regular with Hermione's letters, which wasn't all that surprising given the sheer amount of muggle villages being wiped out by Voldemort's forces. As she's told him the letter before last, people she'd _known_ had died, old friends before she'd started going to Hogwarts.) Have you even heard from Harry this summer? I'm worried about him- I haven't gotten a single piece of mail from him since the end of school. Did he move out of his Aunt's house? The protection was gone when he turned eighteen, wasn't it? What if... (these two words were crossed out, too, but they were legible through the scribbles, and Hermione kept on going as if she'd never written them.) Oh God Ron, did he even send something to Ginny yet? I know they broke up, but you would think he'd at least write to her, just to tell her he's alright, and why do you think he hasn't? Listen, Ron, do you remember the spell that lets people talk through fireplaces? I did some research and I'm going to try to talk to you later. I... I can't write everything down right now. Can you be in your living room tonight at one-thirty in the morning? Try to be alone. Give Pig a treat for me- I'm afraid I might have been a little hard on him when he came here. At least Crookshanks doesn't try to eat him.

Love, Hermione"

"Ron! The bacon's cold!"

"Give me a second!" Ron ferreted a little piece of parchment from his desk, wrote three words (one-thirty's fine), signed it, and gave it to Pig. "Take that to Herm. We're out of treats, but we'll get some later." With that promise and a little whistle- marred by the parchment- the owl took off like a fuzzy softball pitched at the sun.

--

Hedwig landed on the windowsill of Motel Thirteen and tapped on the glass with her beak. When a gnarly little man flung open the window, she flashed the name on the letter she held at him and settled down while he checked the roster. "Remus Lupin's in room number twelve, on the east side," he said, gesturing vaguely with one ugly, swollen-knuckled hand. Hedwig trilled her thanks and took off, gliding around the shabby-looking building until she spotted the correct window and coasted down onto the sill. Lupin immediately recognized her and, dropping the book he was reading, jogged over to throw open his window. "Didn't anyone tell Harry to use a less obvious owl," he muttered, more to Hedwig than to himself, and let the owl settle on his pillow while he unfolded the letter. It was a short paragraph written on a large parchment, wasteful as always.

"Dear Professor Lupin-

A bit of a situation's come up, and I need your help in something. Is there any way to be registered as an Animagus in three weeks? If not, I need you to help me become an unregistered Animagus- it's kind of important, and kind of an emergency. Don't send your reply by Hedwig; I want to talk to you in person about this. Can you talk to me through the fireplace at Number 12, Grimmauld Place at a quarter after two- in the morning, I have company and I don't want them to intrude.

Regards, Harry"

Lupin sighed, ferreted around in a drawer for a suitable quill, crossed out a couple sentences from Harry's original text, flipped the letter over, and wrote on the back.

"Harry- Stop using Hedwig, don't put where you are in your letters, and please, try to be careful. I'll be there- but I have to tell you now that the stupid things your father, Sirius and I did were permissible because the world was a lot safer back then. You're doing something stupid during a dangerous time and you're the last person who should be doing it. Regards, Lupin"

He gave the letter to Hedwig, told her to be careful, and let her back out the window.

--

At one-thirty three- Hermione's watch read one-thirty- a rather disheveled head appeared in the glowing embers in the fireplace in The Burrow. She looked around, fervent, until she finally caught sight of Ron, dozing on the couch. "Ron! Wake up!"

He snapped awake and almost flew over to the hearth. "Sorry, Herm! ...Is something wrong?" She certainly looked uncomfortable.

"This feels strange," she said- well, it didn't exactly feel any different, but being a severed head was certainly a new perspective, and she wasn't sure she liked it. Her boyfriend needed a shave. She also noted with some fascination that his nosehairs were the same flaming red as the hair on his head. "Listen, Ron, we have to hurry- we have a gas fireplace-"

"What's a gas-"

"So I'm in my neighbor's home, and they don't know I'm-"

"You broke into your neighbor's house?"

"This is important, Ron! If they come down here and see me with my head stuck in their fire, they might come to some unpleasant conclusions." He had that uncomprehending look on his face that told her that he didn't really understand anyone not jumping to the conclusion that if someone's head is in a fire, they're talking to someone through floo spells. (This one didn't require Floo powder, which Hermione would be hard-pressed to get anyway, but it was the same basic idea.) "A muggle would die doing this, Ron."

"Oh! Of course." He still didn't look quite clear but it was the best she was going to get.

"It doesn't matter," she muttered. "Listen, Ron- Harry would be safer at school. They can protect us- all three of us."

Ron shook his head; he'd thought his way through all the arguments he could imagine Hermione coming up with. "Not without Dumbledore there." The head in the fireplace swallowed hard.

For a second, she looked away, and Ron sighed, feeling a little put-off by his girlfriend's blatant grief. But then she was back to the old Hermione; she shook her head indignantly and stared up at him from the ashes. "Safer than we would be going after You Know Who."

Ron sighed and tried to meet Hermione's eyes. It wasn't easy, and not just because Hermione was traditionally difficult to look in the eye. She had let herself go these past few weeks since the end of the school year, and Ron couldn't tell why. Her hair was hanging down like a nest of dead things, and there were ballooning purple bags under her eyes. The latter usually meant she had been staying up late nights, doing research to fix some problem, but she'd always been careful with her hair. "You know," he told her, "it would be easiest with him gone. No one's safe right now."

"I believe it," she said, smiling bravely. "They're already getting closer. They attacked some muggles a neighborhood over."

"They've been over there?" Ron's eyes were like dinner plates and they looked like they would fall out if he didn't let his sockets relax back around them. Some-people-Hermione-knew dying meant one thing, Hermione in _danger_ was an entirely new thing altogether.

On the other hand, weren't they all in danger?

"Yeah," was the quiet response, and Hermione swallowed hard. "This is real, Ron- people are dying, people I _know_ are dying. This isn't a game."

Ron stared at her for a second, boggled, then looked away, closing his eyes hard against the red glow around her face. When he looked back at her, he had a look that she'd only ever seen on his face twice before- once, when he stepped up to sacrifice himself in giant chess their first year of school, and once, right before playing Quidditch the year before. "Yeah, well, we're not kids anymore."

"Are you going to make love to the fireplace?" Ron spun around on the floor; Hermione craned her neck up to look.

"George!"

"Actually, Fred, but who's keeping track?" The other redhead looked over his brother's shoulder into the fire. "Oh, hi, Hermione."

"Hi Fred," was the terse answer, and she visibly fidgeted. "Oh. I think they woke up. Listen, Ron-"

"Just think about it." It was clear that his mind was already made up.

"Alright," she replied, somewhat breathlessly, and then was gone. Fred snorted, more at the look on Ron's face than anything else.

--

At a quarter to two, Harry Potter walked into the sitting room with a book on Animagus to entertain himself and a cup of tea balanced on top. He'd left Remus's reply on the coffee table, along with the first few crumpled drafts of the letter he'd sent to him. They weren't there anymore. Two letters were lying face-down on the couch; Draco Malfoy was spread out on the couch, lying on his back, holding the last over his face and guiltlessly reading it.

Mouth opening and then closing with indignation, Harry finally managed to sputter, "What are you _doing_, Malfoy?"

"Please, Potter," was the smooth response. "I'm reading."

He dropped book and tea- the book tumbled but the mug, wizarded against falling, floated in the air- and stormed over to snatch the letter from Malfoy's hands. The two corners the blonde was clutching ripped off, but most of the letter came with Harry. He crumpled it and stuck it in his pocket, then snatched up the other two, too. "These are my letters, Malfoy."

"I was wondering why you signed your name."

"Then leave them alone!"

One blonde eyebrow quirked ironically- a telltale sign that Malfoy was about to say something indescribably annoying. "I wanted to know what went through the mind of the Great Harry Potter." He smirked at the answering expression and effortlessly continued. "You want to become an animagus- a stag, one letter said, just like daddy? Why would you tell that to Lupin?"

It turned out he _didn't_ tell that to Lupin, but doubtlessly his old Professor would make the assumption. "What I tell Professor Lupin in my own letters is my own damn business, Malfoy."

"Not the letters that have my name in them," was the almost self-righteous reply.

"Yes, the letters that _have your name in them_." Harry circled around to stand in front of the relaxed ferret, arms crossed over his chest. "If you haven't noticed, my life _has you in it_, and if I'm going to get you _out of it_, then-"

"I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?" Both Harry and Draco jumped, then glared in tandem as if to cover up to each other that they'd been startled at all. As Harry moved out of his position obscuring Draco from the fireplace, Professor Lupin's head looked rather surprised to learn who he was talking to, but didn't seem overly fazed. "I guess I'm a couple minutes early. If you need more time to finish this..."

"We're fine, Professor," Harry growled, glaring blackly at Malfoy, who was still obviously recovering. "He was just leaving."

"As a matter of fact, I was. Good to see you again, though, Professor Lupin. You look well." The last was a blatant lie; the purpling bags under Lupin's eyes shone violet in the firelight. But Malfoy, as if he couldn't feel Harry's or Lupin's glares, swung off the couch and sauntered out of the room, taking his time and cutting into the time the other two had for conversation, apparently intentionally.

Once it was clear he was gone- and, by the footsteps going upstairs, not listening in by the doorway, either- Lupin cleared his throat, coughing a little as he inhaled a bit of stray ash. "So, Harry..."

"Yes, I know he's a Death Eater, and that he killed Dumbledore, and I'm an idiot for trusting him and I should have just let him die."

"I was actually going to comment as to your hosting skills lacking, but that brings me to my second topic. Just what _is_ he doing here?"

Harry sighed and crouched down beside the fireplace. "I found him on my doorstep. He'd tried to kill himself."

Lupin frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. "Well, there's a coincidence. Happy that he just happened to show up on your doorstep, of all places."

"Do you believe in Fate?"

The werewolf closed his eyes for a long second. "No. I believe in conspiracy."

That turned the conversation a little bit sour; what an unpleasant thing to think on. "Well, I believe in Fate."

Lupin might have shrugged; Harry couldn't see his shoulders. "Well, it doesn't matter. Just be careful. I assume he has something to do with the fact that you want to become an animagus."

Well, that much was Malfoy's business, really- about as much Malfoy's business as Harry's mail was _his_ business. "He had a little playtime with Fenrir Greyback," he responded dryly, ignoring Lupin's wince. "I assume it went sour. He turned into a werewolf right after I took care of the poison he'd given himself."

Lupin frowned, but this time it looked almost light-hearted. "And you want to become his animagus companion, and bridge the generation gap. How unexpectedly kitsch of you, Harry." And then the frown split down the middle and became a full-fledged grin that Harry couldn't stop himself from returning.

"Well," the werewolf continued wistfully, "I wish I could tell you about Wolfsbane, but I never did learn to make it. It's not like Snape offered to teach it to me."

Something new occurred to Harry. "Pardon, Professor, but... what have you been _doing_, every month, if you don't have Wolfsbane?"

Lupin coughed. "Mostly," he admitted, "just locking myself in a room and waiting it out. You know, when muggles used to get that foam-at-the-mouth disease, ah, rabies, they'd chain themselves to trees so they wouldn't bite their families. I get better every month, though." His smile grew somewhat wry. "Tonks keeps asking to be locked in there with me. She... doesn't quite understand, I don't think."

"How is Tonks?" The last time Harry checked, they looked like they were about to get married. Now, Lupin looked more like he would have ripped his own hair out, if his hair and his hands weren't in separate hearths at the moment. "I haven't heard from either of you for some time."

"That's because we're being watched, Harry," Lupin said, sounding tired. "Which brings us to this: next time you want to send me a message, borrow someone else's owl. Hedwig is too recognizable." He was clearly avoiding the subject, but Harry decided against calling him out on it.

"Alright, professor."

"Now. You wanted to know about the animagus." The tone switched from 'concerned patriarch' back to teacher, and he said almost ironically, "This is a complicated topic, Harry. You might want to take notes."


End file.
